Of Artclass and Redheads
by fabbiosa
Summary: Ryan always has had a thing for red heads. Poor guy never did have much luck. One-shot.


Ryan always has had a thing for red-heads.

He'd crushed on Ginny Weasley when he was reading Harry Potter as a kid, and Mary Jane Watson from Spider-Man later. And when he'd been 'day-dreaming' of the perfect girl, he'd added flaming red hair to the long legs and unrealistically large breasts. So, when he notices her sitting across from him in his advanced art class, pale skin in startling contrast with hair too light to be auburn and too dark to be ginger, he's pretty sure it's love at first sight.

He doesn't even like art that much, a friend had dragged him to that first lesson, but he finds himself paying for class after class just to stare at the charcoal smudge on her nose, or her softly bitten lip when she's concentrating. He doesn't even know her name, he's never had the guts to introduce himself, but he knows from catching snatches of the teachers praise that it's unique and beautiful. Cassie, or something.

She catches him staring, sometimes. He'll be comparing her face to the golden ratio when she glances up just long enough for Ryan to notice that those are the darkest green eyes he's ever seen before he realized that it's _him _they're sending a puzzled look. He then promptly flushes and turns back to his work, making a few hopefully meaningful looking dabs with his paint brush. His friend unfailingly snickers and sends him a 'go get her, tiger' wink, which Ryan unfailingly ignores.

He talks to her at his eleventh lesson. She sat in front of him that time, and while he misses the little crinkle she gets between her brows, she's put her hair up today and he's enjoying the sight of her pale neck as he absentmindedly sketches some kind of Buddha-shaped-thing in the response to the probably purposefully vague prompt "something spiritual". But for the first time in a while, her art is what really catches his attention. A quick glance around the room tells him that most people have chosen to draw angels, and she's no exception, but while the rest are drawing harp-playing blonde surfer dudes or naked, pink cheeked babies, she draws war.

"I thought angels weren't meant to be scary," he blurts out, flinching as he received a sharp glare for interrupting the silence of the classroom and Cassie-or-something turned to face him. She looks amused, and Ryan tries not to let his internal flailing turn external as he steadily turns red. Cassie doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn't mind.

"They aren't." she informs him patiently. "This is an archangel," she nods to her painting, all golden wings and ink black blood dripping off wicked looking glass swords. "Angels are messengers. Archangels are warriors." She smiles at him, bright and with a little crinkle in the corner of her eye, before reaching a hand out for him to shake. "Clary, by the way," she introduces herself with a grin, and Ryan approves. The name is pretty, but unusual. Perfect. "Ryan," he manages to croak out, shaking her cool, dry hand in what he's sure is a clammy grip.

She rises from her seat, and Ryan feels the colour rush back to his cheeks as she settles next to him, too late to cover his disaster of a drawing. "Nice… Buddha?" She asks, cocking her head and squinting, and Ryan is pretty sure he must more-than-vaguely resemble a tomato as he nods. She laughs lightly, and it really says something that Ryan is too busy wallowing in his own embarrassment to enjoy the sound properly. "Oh, it's not _that _bad," she teases good-naturedly. Before he knows what's going on, she's kneeling down to his level and leaning over him to get at his drawing, and it's kind of creepy that he's enjoying sniffing her so much, but she smells like herbs and clean-ness and something that could only be described as sunshine, so, after a quick debate, he decides to allow himself this.

She's saying something about finger length when he notices the scars on her wrist, revealed by her raised sleeve.

They're sort of funny looking. Thin – almost burn-like, with the skin pulled tight and shiny, but they look too refined, too… intentional to be accidents, the curves and swoops of them almost graceful. Puzzled, he finds himself asking "Where do they come from?" before he can stop himself. Freezing in horror, all he can do is watch as Clary turns and blinks at him.

"Where does what come from?"

Oh God. "I – the scars, on your wrist."

She barely has time to give him a deer-in-the-headlights looks before a sickly sweet voice breaks in. "Alrighty sweetie pies!" their art teacher chirrups "I want this project done by next class!" Clary starts, relieved expression clear on her face, and Ryan barely has a chance to be annoyed with himself as she races off to collect her stuff.

"Wow…" His previously mentioned friend, Andrew, drawls as he watches Clary run off like her tail is on fire. "You've been drooling over her for two months, and you manage to scare her off in 30 seconds of conversation," he observes shrewdly, sending him an unimpressed look as he packs up his pastels. "I know. Thanks for pointing that out." Ryan pouts, slouching dejectedly in his paint splattered seat.

"First off" Andrew holds up one finger "I would like for it to be acknowledged that I am the best friend ever, and also that you have so little game that I am probably getting more than you at any one time. As a virgin with little to no romantic prospects."

"Thank you Andrew, I really don't know what I'd – "

"Just go after her and apologize, dumbass. I don't know what you said, but it's really not that complicated. Besides," he shrugged "Chicks dig the grand gestures. Like it the rom-coms"

"Yeah…" Ryan said slowly, feeling a cautious bubble of hope rising in his chest, and flinging himself to the stairway before his common sense could pop it.

Ryan races down the steps two at a time to catch up with her, and that girl must be more athletic than she looks, because by the time Ryan is at the bottom of the three stories of staircase and completely out of breath, she's already down there and looking as perfect as she did the first time he saw her. She's watching the road almost anxiously, which just makes Ryan feel worse. He can't stop himself now, though, because she's spotted him and is turning up the corners of her lips in a tentative half smile and before he knows what's going on he's standing right in front of her.

"I'm sorry," Ryan blurts "That was dumb and insensitive and nosy and - I'm sorry." He finishes meekly, just about feeling ready to sink into the pavement from embarrassment. But then the up curve of her lips turns more natural and Ryan takes a moment to admire her dimples before he realizes that maybe that means he's forgiven. "It's fine," Clary assures him, seeming slightly distracted as she glances out onto the road.

"So…" Ryan begins, feeling awkward, and, because she is clearly a perfect mixture art, manners and freckles, Clary immediately drags her attention from the road to face him. "…Yes?"

Caught off guard, Ryan stutters "I – I was thinking, maybe, sometime – we could maybe – beverages? Not like, actual beverages, because I'm nineteen, and I'm pretty sure you're nineteen, but – "

That is – obviously, this is Ryan's life – when he turns up. It's like one of the golden-haired surfer dudes had climbed out from his classmates paintings, put on a leather jacket, and was now sauntering up to them like a cliché straight out of tweenagers wet dream. And then – again, _Ryan's life_ – pulls the girl of Ryan's dreams into a deep, wet, oh-my-god-why-are-you-doing-that-in-public kiss.

"Sorry I'm late," Surfer Angel says, sounding slightly out of breath after they finally pull apart with a wet smack. "It's fine," Clary breathes, looking more than a little frazzled. Ryan doesn't really blame her; he's pretty sure he's seen the guy on a billboard somewhere.

"You ready to go?" he prompts as Clary is catching her breath. She nods "Yeah" and then, seeming to just remember Ryan's presence, turns to face him guiltily. "Sorry, Ryan, I really do have to go. Talk to you next time, maybe?"

All he can do is nod numbly as Angel Surfer proceeds to wrap an arm around her waist to drag her off – presumably to a dark corner to have his wicked way with her – and Clary twists in his grip to wave him goodbye.

It was a bit like his crush on Mary Jane Watson all over again.

_Redheads_, man.


End file.
